The Heathrow hotel H and I had booked for an overnight stay rose impressively against a frosty night sky. We booked in. They knew who I was and I was quite frankly amazed considering they didn’t know me from Eve when I rang to confirm and I had to prod Emma the incompetent booking agent into doing her job properly.
After a coffee, staring blankly at a silent football match on wide screen TV in the hotel lounge, we retired to the two ample queen beds and fading décor of our room to grab some precious sleep. But after what seemed like only a few minutes we were both wakened by an ominous clunk and the aroma of singed electric wiring. The archaic fan heater, doing its level best against sub-zero temperatures and H’s inability to retain heat, had given up the ghost and was about to ignite. H fell out of bed to turn it off and after exchanging anxious looks we tried to snatch a little more sleep before the four am alarm